[h2][center][color=39b54a]Jeremy Arthur Velera[/color] - August Dupin[/center][/h2] The cup of black coffee that Jeremy now held in his hand felt warm compared to his freezing hand, his hands shoveling through the snow still cold from the endevour. To many others this cup would have been nothing more than a normal cup, but it was luxury for the Irishman wearing his worn-out trench coat, and he cherished everything about it. Or he would have, hadn't it been for the nagging feeling that kept his shoulder up high, the feeling that someone was watching him, somewhere just around the corner or behind a curtain. For being in a place he usually thought of as "safe", he felt that he shouldn't be there. Jeremy gulped down some coffee when August pulled him back into the real world, assuring him that even the slighest detail might be of use. Another gulp of coffee poured down his throat, the damping liquid of caffine warming up his shivering body - at least he felt as if he was shivering, or was that simply his hand? [u][i]"Was Mr. Killigan acting odd in any memorable way before the events of that night? Perhaps mentioning any specific places or people, things that were troubling him? Really anything that would still be stuck in your mind as odd or peculiar after everything that took place? Any unanswered questions?”[/i] [/u] The questions raced through his mind, opening boxes of packed away knowledge from the time Killigan was still a living man - a friend. [color=39b54a]"Ehm...let me think, August...Now that I'm thinking about it, he said he had seen something strange happen down in Boston, but that had happened a while before...well, The night..."[/color] Jeremy took another gulp of his coffee, for some reason taking a look over his shoulder as if expecting to see Killigan standing there, judging him. But he only saw the waitress serve another figure, a tall and thin man dressed in black, holding a book; writing. [color=39b54a]"He had helped a friend with some cargo, said he needed all the help they could get on this job. If I'm not mistaken, the cargo came from Africa...I think, Congo maybe? He said the captain spoke French, but the sailors sounded Dutch-like, atleast the white ones. Anyway, one of the sailors dropped a crate by accident, and for some reason he began screaming in utter fear. Nobody knew why, but Killigan said he wouldn't shut up until the box was locked again and placed out of sight, somewhere on a truck. The sailors was taken back on the boat, but nothing more like that happened after that. He thought the cargo was going to the museum, but that's all he knew. It was just very odd that he mentioned it that day, and not the day after it happened, I thought. But any unanswered questions? Eh...no, not really. He had no reason to...die the way he did, especially not when his wife needed the money to actually get to America. Stuck in Ireland, like my fiancé too, you see."[/color] Jeremy let out a quiet sigh, taking another gulp of his coffee after finishing what he felt was a long and useless talk. What had some bloody cargo from Congo to do with Killiang crushing himself to death? It didn't make any sense! [u][i]“Do you by chance know if he had any contact with a Faye Desdemona?”[/i][/u] [color=39b54a]"What...who...how do you know?"[/color] was Jeremy's first reaction to August's question, a look of sheer terror striking his face. The name, Faye Desdemona, it too brought him back to the dream that night; the woman, clad in white and speaking - without moving her lips -, telling them to find her. August. He had seen August there, beside the lady, the one that name felt attached to. [color=39b54a]"I mean...no, he didn't have any contact with her...but I do. Well, I think I do, the name does ring a bell. I think I remember it from back in Ireland, somehow, but I can't attach it. Why, is she another suicide victim?"[/color] – Congo-A word August had now heard twice since his arrival to the City of Arkham. Could this little miniscule detail really be such a big part of the puzzle? he found himself pondering as he tried to recall just what he knew about the "Congo” but like most he could only conjure up stereotypical jungle images accompanied by noises he'd only ever heard in the theaters. Perhaps he needed to pay Professor Atkins office another visit and give the place a more thorough examination? Or perhaps this has absolutely nothing to do with my case. Rather certain Jeremy would be another deadend lead wise August had been mulling over the possibility that perhaps the late Professor Atkins had been somehow connected with the aforementioned crate delivered to the also now deceased Killigan when the recently mentioned Jeremy dropped a completely figurative bombshell. It wasn't necessarily what Jeremy had said in regard to the off hand question about Faye Desdemona that caught Augusts attention so much as it was the familiar look of shock and realization that seemed to cover Jeremy's face momentarily. The stuttering and fumbling over his own words after the fact also didn't help the still rather worried looking Jeremy's case. It was in that instance August came to completely believe that this man knew something-something August himself was now completely determined to discover by almost any means necessary. Quickly trying to wipe his own wide eyed expression of shock off his face August rushed to bite his tongue-although he was dying to demand answers he was also well aware to just how important his next few words would be. With a sentence or two Jeremy could either become a very good source of information or completely clam up and become the definition of uncooperative. Having decided upon what he truly believed to be the most calming voice and least alarming response August opened his mouth to speak only to yet again be extremely surprised as he was cut off before even ushering a word. Where August's voice should have been was instead the hollering shout of Arkhams finest police officer: Barry Lexington. - Barry had barely gotten any sleep that night. In his private office back home in his apartment, sitting at his desk facing the large window overlooking the street below, he went over his notes again and again under the light of his desk-lamp. He had not noticed the hours flying by, like the raven passing his office window at an alarming speed, nor the cup of coffee that stood on the side of the desk. From the time he placed it there and until he reached to take the first gulp, it was ice cold, just like the gruesome scene he found at the university the day before. He spat it out, swearing and cursing the terrible taste of cold caffine, before returning to his work for a few more hours. But by this point he was only running in circles, treading through the same track of clues and looking for what was staring him in the face. He could not find it, but what he had found, he wanted to investigate in the morning. So with a raven watching him from a lamp post down the street, he turned off the light and closed the door, heading off to have some well-needed sleep. [color=2e3192]"August Dupin, what a coincedence!"[/color] It was by pure chance that on a second day in a row, Barry would stumble upon August, as if Fate demanded their paths cross. Barry was there to get himself a much needed cup of coffee - he now didn't trust himself after last night's incident - when he recognized the broad-shouldered man of a massive size sitting in a all-too small chair. Across from him sat another man, also wearing a trench-coat but of less quality. His gut told Barry he might be a worker, a mechanic or a dock-worker, he could see his rough hands and lines under his eyes. But why was August talking with him? Was it part of his search for...who was it again? Barry had forgot. But surprised - and delighted - to see his pal again, he walked up to the pair sitting at the table, planting his palms on the table. [color=2e3192]"I was hoping to find you, but I'll be a skinned Kraut if I believed you'd be the first person I'd meet today! And who are you?"[/color] Jeremy - and in truth August as well - looked up at the detective with surprised, if not worried eyes, the tired-looking man wearing a trench coat, not certain whether to glad to see him or not. Jeremy, though uncertain of this man's looks and the police badge at his chest, reached out a hand towards him. [color=39b54a]"Velera, Jeremy A. Velera. I'm terribly sorry sir, but I should be going. It was...a pleasure to meet you again, August, hopefully we'll meet each other again."[/color] As Jermey quickly grabbed his own trench coat and walked - or rather, jogged slowly - out the door, he hoped for quite the opposite. Not because he didn't want to know more about Killigan's death, but because he was afraid of meeting that detective again, especially if he and August were associates. He was a wanted man after all. Both August and Barry looked confused at each other for a moment, before Barry put on his friendly face for his war-time buddy. [color=2e3192]"Irish I see. Didn't know you spent your time with those potato munchers, August? Nevermind that, I need to speak with you down at the station. I think I found something that might help our little...spontaneous mystery from yesterday."[/color] __________ [center][h2][color=39b54a]Jeremy Arthur Velera[/color][/h2][/center] The voice, the female voice that had just been so southing was now gone from Jeremy's mind. His footsteps were heavy, crunching in the compact snow as he went from jogging to running and from running to sprinting down the street as fast as he could. Why had he suddenly met this man, this random man who he felt he had met before, spoken with and found out he was investigating Killigan? And why in God's name could he still not remember what had happened yesterday? All these thoughts, feelings, bits and pieces of his mental illness that dwelled down deep inside him, made their worst to tear his mind apart as he suddenly found himself fighting for his breath, standing outside of Miskatonic University. And there stood two men, talking to each other. One of them being a policeman, the other...someone else, someone who looked as if he didn't fit in. They looked serious, as if something bad had happened. Had it? If so, when? Yesterday when Jeremy had lost all track of his memory? Why the fuck was this happening to him? He had to know, he had to find out what was going on in this city that was driving him mad. And he found strenght to go and ask the man walking towards him, having just finished his conversation with the policeman. [color=39b54a]"I'm terribly sorry to disturb you, Sir, but I couldn't help but see that the University is guarded by the police. What is going on?"[/color] ________ [color=2e3192][center][h2]Barry Lexington[/h2][/center][/color] [color=2e3192]"What in the actuall fucking name of God do you mean by; I am offically taken off the case?"[/color] The very first thing Barry - and August - noticed once they set foot inside the Arkham Police Department, was the tall, slender looking figure standing at the reception, his back perfectly straight, as if he was a statue. But when he had turned around and looked Barry in the eyes, he knew at an instant that something was wrong. It had only gotten worse once the man, adressing himself simply as Mr. Lichfield, told Barry that they needed to talk in his office; alone. So August was left standing in the reception, twindling his thumbs as the two men, equally frightening in their own ways, went to Barry's office. [color=2e3192]"Who do you think you are? You can't just waltz into this station, MY station, claim that you're from somebody higher up in the system, and tell me that you're taking the Atkins Case out of my fucking hands!"[/color] Barry's face was red, red as the bloody corpses of the Krauts he had cut down years ago. And right now the only difference between those Krauts and this Mr. Lichfield was that the Krauts was just the enemy; Mr. Lichfield had made this personal. And Detective Barry Lexinton did not like it when people made it all personal.